


It's 2 AM and he loves you as much as you love him

by macbethsoup



Category: No. 6 (Anime & Manga), No. 6 - All Media Types, No. 6 - Asano Atsuko
Genre: /frustrated sigh, Alcohol Usage, M/M, Modern AU, i rushed the end because im bad at finishing things and i wanted to finish this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-26
Updated: 2013-11-26
Packaged: 2018-01-02 16:44:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1059169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/macbethsoup/pseuds/macbethsoup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It begins in a bar, and it ends at his doorstep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's 2 AM and he loves you as much as you love him

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first actual ficlet I've ever posted. (well I posted one on tumblr before but it was mostly a short drabble OTL) but yeah. Okay it's late at night and I haven't checked over this or anything I just needed to get it out of my hair because I thought that maybe this was actually decent enough to post. I'm sorry for the dumb POV and things.

\------  


You meet him on a night in a local bar that reeks of a fragrance most would deem as old age. You go here almost every night to succumb to a temporary, hazy buzz; you're still underage, only eighteen, and you haven't even been drinking for a long time. So it's fleeting. You're scared to completely indulge in such a game. This has only gone on for a month.  


This bar was at first a last resort, but as time has passed you've come to realize it's the perfect place to silently make a fool of yourself in a back corner where no one ever looks. It's a small, wooden cabin right on the border of being crazy and being insane. You're always the youngest customer, everyone else is at least old enough to be going through a mid-life crisis; which is probably why they're all here in the first place. No one waits by the door to check for any sort of identification, and the guy at the counter is always too drunk to pay attention to anything else except his next bottle of beer.  


And it's perfect. You never see anyone of importance here. You never see anyone who would care.  


That is, until he takes his first steps into the bar that you have deemed your own.  


It takes you a while to notice his presence, but you feel eyes boring into the back of your head everytime you take a swig from the blackened bottle in your hands. The feeling bugs you, it flies around your head and lands on your shoulders. Finally, you lead your eyes around and spot the culprit. He immediately turns away; you can see his ears burning red, even though he's all the way across the room.  


And for the night, it ends at that. You leave right after, and you give him no second thought.

\----

It's a Saturday night, and once again you've found yourself sitting in the corner of that damn bar. It's packed, as always on the weekends; it's not peaceful at all. The usually mellow old geezers are whooping and chanting as their beer-bellied friends are bent over a brand new pool table that was just put in the day before. It's not an attractive sight, you note, their stomachs fold over the edges like putty; so you set your eyes towards the wall and you lock in on the dust that envelops the cracks and lines.  


You wait.  


What seems like an eternity passes, and you heave out a sigh. You pick up your jacket from the back of the grimy chair, and make for the door.  


Well, you attempt to make for the door, because the second you take a step you see him practically glaring at you from the corner of your eye. He seems to be begging for your attention, atleast, that's how you perceive it.  


You turn on your heels and sit right back down, mustering up the most leisurely posture you can. You stare back at him, and he turns his attention to his thumbs. He's a strange looking guy; his hair's white and he wears a reddened scar. It travels from his cheek, it wraps around his neck and between his unbuttoned collar you can see it leads to somewhere on his chest. Adorned on said cheeks is a spreading blush. He knows you're looking at him.  


You stay this way for a good five minutes, and he finally stands up and walks to the counter. Your eyes travel his figure. He's shorter than you are, and the more you look at him, the more you come to realize that he's probably around your age. He stands there for a while, and when he turns back towards you, he has two drinks in hand. He's taking steps in the direction of your table. And you don't mind at all.  


He makes it to your table and he sets the drinks down with utmost care, like a mother putting her child to sleep at night. And he sits down across from you. No words are exchanged, he only smiles and chugs the alcohol quickly. Then he gets up, and leaves.  


 _Wait._  
\----  


The next time you meet him is not in a rotting bar, but outside of a CD store. You're walking towards the produce shop downtown, and your eyes travel from face to face, but you never let them linger for too long. He is pacing towards his place of employment, and it is located on the exact opposite side of town from where you are heading, and he is too frantic to pay attention. Too frantic to realize that he is going to plow into you. His head is drooped low, watching his feet; maybe he thinks he'll fall if he doesn't stare at the shoes that guide him to his destination. You recognize the hair, though, for no one else has transparent locks atop their head; and in that moment of recognition, you no longer are cautious, and you allow him to hit you head first, literally.  
Before you can register, you are falling ass-first onto hard pavement. He follows suit. You glare at him and he's immediately on his feet, bowing his head and repeating one "I'm so sorry" after the other. And something that should've never escaped your lips does.  


"No. I'm also sorry. It takes two people to collide like this."  


And he gives you the strangest look. It was almost a look of denial, _don't apologize to me._  


After a minute,  


"Yeah. I guess you have a point, there." His ears turn red, and you wonder just how easily this man gets embarrassed.  


And you have this urge to continue the conversation. You're right outside of a CD store, and you don't know how to properly converse with people unless you're exchanging drunken insults, so you pull something out of the air.  


"Do you prefer CDs or records?"  


He shifts his feet and looks down at his hands, and he says that he's never used either. You tell him to come with you for a second, and you lead him into the CD store. You tell him to buy one, it's on you. He looks excited, and he picks out a Tigers Jaw record. You stand by the check-out counter, and he tosses it to you. It's paid for and you're walking out of the store with him and his face is red once again. You ask him if he's feeling alright, because damnit, nobody should turn this red at any given moment. He stutters a "I don't own a record player, this was pointless..", and you tell him that you have one at your place; he looks at you with sudden excitement in his eyes.  


The produce store can wait, you think. But then he suddenly bursts into a panic and apologizes profusely. He runs off with a lingering "I just remembered that I'm late for work."  
And you wonder how the hell this airhead gets so easily sidetracked.  
And you wonder why the hell you're even giving him the time of day.  
You don't even know his name.  


And so you end up walking home, record in hand, not even bothering to go to your original destination. You open the door and immediately play the record, and you think to yourself that this boy has damn good taste, even if it was bought on a whim.  


And throughout the entire night, you give him more than a second thought.  
\-----

Fast forward two months, and you're lying on his bed while he's downstairs popping popcorn and picking out the appropriate booze to go with. His name is Shion and he likes sleeping in the same bed as you, as he's already proven in the last five times you spent the night. He doesn't have a dad, and he lives on his own. He's eighteen, the same age as you, and he's pretty well off for his age because of his mom. He likes cherry cake and sometimes he gets drunk because he feels smothered and controlled by something; he says it helps him relax.  


He returns after a few minutes and plops down beside you. He presses play on the remote and you immediately know what he's chosen to watch tonight. About a week before, you told him that your favorite movie was Home Alone, and that's exactly what's appearing on the large screen in front of you.  


You fall asleep to the sound of his breathing halfway through.  
\---

There are days whenever you think you want to kiss him. But you don't know your limits, you don't know whether or not he wants to do the same to you. In fact, you really don't know much about him at all. You just know that you trust him. You know that he means something to you, and that you want to kiss him.  


"Nezumi.."  


You're at his house again, it's almost as if it's become your own home. Your groceries have gone untouched for the past month, and your electric bill has gone down quite a bit, which has pretty much saved your ass, because your already-small income has been less than usual.  


"Nezumi. Tell me about yourself."  


You both held a beer in one hand, and your other hand was busy being intertwined with his free one.  


You look him in the eye and begin to tell him about the death of your parents. About how you've lived alone since you were fourteen. You tell him that you've never been outside of the state, but you want to travel the world. You tell him that your boss is an asshole and his hair line is receeding too quickly; he's only 29. You tell him your favorite color is black, and that you're scared of fire.  


And he tells you he'll make note of all of it, he tells you that you're a good person. And he smiles at you.  


And you lean in. And you kiss him.  


You don't know why; it was on impulse. You'd been thinking about it for the past few days, and he just looked so beautiful, so happy. And he was sitting so close. And maybe you were just a little bit drunk. Both of you were. Still, you know what you just did was most definitely not okay. But he was soft, and his breath tasted like the bar on the border of being crazy and being insane.  


His eyes are closed. He's still, not moving a muscle. He says nothing, makes no indication as to whether or not kissing him was okay.  


So you leave.  


He doesn't follow you.  
\----  


You find yourself back at the bar that you haven't visited in weeks because you've felt alright for once. Tonight is different though. Tonight is the night you kissed your best friend, and you don't feel alright.  


You're no longer scared to properly indulge in alcohol, in fact, you're on your fourth bottle right now.  


Maybe, if he'd reacted differently, things would've turned out differently. You wouldn't be here in a shithole bar, flushing out the shame you feel with beer. Maybe if he'd have followed you'd be joking and laughing together in his room right now.  


_It's not his fault._  


You sit in the corner of the room where no one even looks; you let out a quick sob, and then you turn to your bottle and take a swig. Then you take another one. Five minutes later, and you're on your fifth bottle. You're this torn up because you've never had a friend before. You've never truly felt the need to be around someone before. You've never felt love for someone.  


And that's what this is. You're here at a bar, and you realize now that you're in love with your only friend. The one person who has been your first for many innocent things. His name is Shion and you realize that you need to provide him with an explanation as to why you kissed him, because you want to at least be able to be by his side as a friend. You know that won't happen until you explain.  


So you leave without thinking to pay. Nobody notices.  


You head for his house, you're drunk and you're driving but _who the fuck cares._  
\-----

 _It's 2 AM._

_You bang on his door and he's wide awake and his eyes are red._

_And he immediately pulls you into his arms._

"I'm sorry." 

_And you don't need to explain anything._

"I understand." 

_It's 2 AM and he loves you as much as you love him._

**Author's Note:**

> My tumblr is macbethsoup and I will eventually work up the nerve to post this on there, as well.


End file.
